


White Feathers

by Arckee



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clarke is an annoyed gardener who's seconds away from dropping an f-bomb, F/F, So... Untitled Goose Princess?, Swan Princess AU, Untitled Cursed Game?, Untitled Goose Game AU, and this time it's actually about gardening, anybody surprised it was gonna be about gardening?, it's about gardening, or destroying gardens but that still counts, yeah me either
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26388685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arckee/pseuds/Arckee
Summary: Clarke’s sure she’s going crazy. She keeps meeting a weird woman in the mddle of the night, and she swears she's not a thief.Oh, and there’s a goose that wants to destroy her garden.or"That puny plume-plucked pigeon!"
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	White Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to post this in one long chapter, but then it got way too long, so I decided to split it in three parts. I just need to finish editing the other two, and hopefully that won't take too long.
> 
> On the gardening side, since I found zero info, I decided to basically treat the glowing flowers as tulips, especially for their planting. There, for all the gardeners out there. If there's any mistake, please let me know. (Seriously, do. I don't want my flowers to die.)
> 
> Thank you to anyone who'll read this. It's been a fun project born from a stupid idea. This goes to my pal who listen to my ramblings about geese and chickens.
> 
> Also, a goose bit me once. So fuck you, goose. This is not for you.

Kneeling on the ground, Clarke rolled back her tunic's left sleeve, the one that insisted on falling over her wrist. A wisp of hair escape at the movement from her bun and fell between her eyes. Her knees were fragmented by imprinted speckles of dirt and she was bare handed, dirt leaving earthy imprints on her wrists. She huffed, clearing the last of the weeds' roots from a small hole she was digging, as she pulled the crumbles of soil to the side with the dull side of a short spade.

She measured the depth, palm open in a wide span, careful of the frailty of the structure. Earth kept spilling back inside from all sides. She spread over the bottom a handful of small pebbles, the smooth oval kind she had picked in one of her trips to the river. Satisfied with the sandy texture of the terrain, she carefully coated the rocks with a thin layer of earth, uneven gaps created by the pebbles' struggle for symmetry.

The bulb she extracted from the pouch tied to her belt was wiry, rough under her touch. A sprout of green hinted at its top, testament of new life ready to spring.

With the heel of her palm, Clarke dropped the bulb at the centre of the small pit and adjusted its angle with her thumb. She reached blindly for the spade, lost somewhere behind her, and combed the soil, filling again the hole in few broad motions. When the ground was even again, she plunged vertically a thin twig in the soil, few inches left of the buried bulb. It was the last of a long row.

As she turned to inspect the garden of newly planted flowers, the lock of blonde hair fell back in her face.

+++++

The jasmine flowers grew all along the pathway, white speckles glistening under the moonlight.

Clarke brushed their leaves gently, the vibrant hues of green dark and lucid against her calloused palm. The sticky resin on the thin petals itched the back of her hand where a pinkish line ran over her knuckles, the tender tissue that grew over an injury. She had nicked her knuckles against a hidden rock while she was clearing the earth around the deep roots of a stubborn weed.

The flowers extended all along the cobblestone, a silent company to those who trampled on castle grounds during crisp nights. Among all the plants, jasmine flowers were one of the few species that bloomed late in the day, gifting their sweet quivering fragrance only after the sun had dipped under the horizon line.

Clarke's fingers traveled further down, tracing the sturdy stems of the plant. The damp soil left a faint trace of dirt on her fingertips. Its speckled brown tint suggested the flowers ached for more water, but after appeasing the chilly breeze that was steadily picking up and combined with the heavy clouds that lingered in the moonlit sky, she decided to proceed further in her rounds, casting one departing glance to the flowers.

She had never pictured herself becoming a gardener. Growing up, the walls of her cramped bedroom had always been stained by sketches and messy drawings, cluttered murals her father would whitewash every couple of years to let her have more surface to paint on. In her childhood home she could always find food on the table and warm clothing for the long winter, but canvas were expensive and a wider variety of brushes was preferable to a couple of nicer canvas.

Her childhood dream was to become the greatest painter in all kingdom.

As her feet began to fill her tattered shoes, she pictured herself following in her mother's footsteps. Her father's death had solidified the wish of becoming a doctor, someone who could have the aims of preventing unfair deaths. Those that only left broken families behind.

The truth behind her father's passing made her crush that dream in her bleeding fists.

Then life got in the way and war against the Maunon realigned perspectives and paved the way for difficult decisions. And after fighting and surrendering to an alliance with the Ice Queen, the Skaikru children were forced to work under Nia's siege to survive. Or maybe not children anymore, as the Ice Queen herself had declared.

Gardening grew on her.

She learned to enjoy the tapestry of colours life had to offer, the minute and patient care hidden behind each plant. Discover the secret language of nature and the joy of manual labour. It was close to both being a painter and a doctor, in some ways.

She fell in love with the feeling of seeds gliding on her open palm, slotting against each other.

Her steps sounded hollow and dry as she trudged further down the path, and Clarke let her gaze wander over the yard, empty of human's trace, but blooming with the invisible footprints of nature. In the corner of her vision, something glinted in the tremulous circle of light cast by lanterns. A rake, laying forgotten on the side of a pillar.

"Damn you, Jasper," she cursed under her breath and drifted from the trail to retrieve the misplaced tool she had seen in the boy's care earlier in the day.

As she tapped the tip of the rake against the marble pillar to shake off the excess dirt, something else shifted at the periphery of her vision, near the flight of stairs that lead to the castle side entrance. She sighed, suspecting another misplaced tool.

But then the same flicker shifted, dark and agile. And very much alive.

She choked the sudden rush of fear that coursed in her veins at a possible danger lurking ahead. Without hesitation, Clarke turned swiftly on her feet, rake raised in front of her like a crude weapon. The thought of an intrusion made her unconsciously hold her breath, fingers slowly clenching and unclenching in their grip and a rush of adrenaline crept up her spine, one that locked her limbs in a tense energy.

She watched carefully as the figure - definitely human - bent lower against the wall, still unaware of her presence.

"Halt!"

The silhouette froze under her eyes, hunching further.

"Don't move!" Clarke thundered and marched forward, drunk on the dizzying spell of adrenaline. She reached the edge of the circle of light, eyes never straying from the intruder's shadow. Now closer, she could see the outline of messy braids, long hair twisted and weaved in tight knots to frame a feminine face. The intruder stayed low, knuckles brushing the ground and wild eyes trained on the gardener. Her palms were empty and twitchy.

Clarke couldn't help the growing smirk at the startled reaction, a clear sign of guilt. Her smugness quickly soured as she caught a flash of silver, blinking from a short sheath tied to the intruder's calf. The flare of panic surfaced again tenfold, bubbling under her skin, but the fight prevailed once again over the urge to flight. She stepped closer, struggling not to lower her gaze on the dagger.

"I-I caught you, thief."

The intruder jolted.

"Thief?" the word tumbled from the intruder's mouth in a smooth roll, the sound rough around the edges. A chuckle ringed like a rumbling in Clarke's ears, reminding her of the clinking of stones she used to drain the soil.

"I'm not a thief," she continued, rising in one fluid motion. She was clad in dark garments, tunic torn and stitched back together in a couple of places. The light caught on the burgundy band tightened around her left bicep.

"Really?" Clarke scoffed, noticing the blade had disappeared back in the sheath, "Lurking under a staircase in the middle of the night? Mhm. You're not making a very convincing case," she pressed, daring another step to lay the tip of the rake on the girl's belly, heedless of the cocky expression. The thief didn't even flinch at the threat, opting to cackle in a clear attempt of antagonizing her. Clarke bristled and felt the reverberations of the laugh ricocheting through her outstretched arm.

"I'm not doing anything," the girl repeated, eyes glinting, light lapping at them. Darkened circles were painted around her eyes, smeared across her cheekbones and traveling up to her temples, the memory of charcoal.

"Sneaking around? That's no anything." Clarke insisted, pushing the rake higher on her chest.

"Just admiring the scenery." The intruder shifted on her feet and Clarke's weapon moved accordingly, "The flowers are beautiful," she tossed casually, stance slouching. Her gaze paused on the jasmine flowers winding around a near archway, "If you know the gardener, congratulate them on my behalf."

Clarke stubbornly refused to acknowledge the snarky comment and the stretching silence made the blonde nervous. Despite her loud bravado, she didn't believe she could win in a fight against her. The woman was tall and slim, weaponless on the surface, but probably harbouring an invisible threat if only for the fact that she had been able to slink through posted guards without activating any alarm.

Clarke narrowed her eyes as the intruder settled on a posture of brash assuredness.

The lapsing stillness was broken by a hiccuping sound, a harsh rhythmic clanking that approached from behind. Clarke jolted, recognizing the grating of a lantern against a halberd's metal end. The image of the only servant who hanged their torch to a weapon slung over their shoulders popped in her mind, alongside with the seed of an idea that would hopefully turn the tides in her favour.

"You can't sweet talk your way out of here."

The intruder's smirk grew, "It would be admitting I'm a thief."

"And you're clearly not a thief," Clarke scoffed again, hoping to keep the woman distracted for a little bit longer.

"Exactly," the intruder nodded, "Glad you picked up on that."

Not lowering her weapon, Clarke leaned further in the shadows, "You keep telling yourself that, thief," she said and tightened her hold on the rake's handle, counting in her mind the number of steps required to cross the yard.

"Bellamy!" she shouted, gaze pushing to the corners of her vision in hope of catching a glimpse of the servant, "Bellamy! Over here!"

To Clarke's sinking displeasure, the sound of his walking grew fainter with each passing moment, her scream not loud enough to attract his attention.

"Bellamy!" she cried again, turning her head to the side to get a better visual of him. Inevitably, she lost sight of the intruder, as she was forced to tear her gaze away from her haughty grin.

"Bellamy!"

Finally, blessedly, Bellamy's affirmative shout answered her call, followed by the quickening of his footsteps in her direction. But when she turned around to gloat, the woman had already vanished, leaving her to stare into open air at the tip of her raised rake.

+++++

An entire row of uprooted carrots laid in front of her.

Clarke didn't move for a long while, fuming in her anger, arms crossed at her chest. She stared stonily down at the carrots, which should have been an hopeful bright colour in a couple of months, the proper moment for reaping. Instead, each carrot was small and sickly white, covered in wrinkly lines that stemmed from the remains of their thin roots.

Jasper's mocking laughter bellowed from behind and she felt her face flush.

It seemed as each carrot had been forcefully uprooted, dragged for a couple of steps, and then abandoned on the spot. The contours of a bite mocked her on one particularly big carrot, the bitten crop split in the middle and equally forgotten on the ground.

Clarke knelt, brushing away more dirt, small indentations still visible on the ground.

"You too?"

The quiet voice of Monty filtered past her anger and Clarke turned around to face him. The scholar was wearing his usual flowing brown robe, hem soiled and undershirt spilling from the unsewn collar of his tunic. He was carrying a stack of papers and unbound books in a tight grip, and his right cheek was matted by an ink stain.

"I came to check on you after we discovered the mess in the library," he offered a small smile that made Clarke shake her head, half in wonder at his placid tone. Nobody handled repeated thefts quite like the levelheaded Monty.

Her anger strengthened, "Candles again?"

"The whole stock," Monty conceded, shrugging airily as if he didn't lost a whole shipment of wax for the third time in the past two months, "It's not a problem for our amanuenses, not yet at least. We still have many hours of daylight for working, but with the approaching autumn it's going to be if this doesn't stop."

He stared over Clarke's shoulder, appeasing the mess behind her, "Seems like you didn't have better luck."

"They're all ruined," Clarke sighed, frustration quickly flaring up inside her, "I swear, when I put my hands on that... that beast, I-" she cut herself off, lips shaping in a furious snarl.

Monty shifted the weight in his arms, adjusting his grip on the books and Clarke's eyes flicked down to the underside of his hand, black with ink.

"I'll save a glass of moonshine for you this evening," he lifted one shoulder, the faintest trace of mischief glinting in his serene eyes, before he made his way past her. Clarke nodded at his retreating back, fists still clenched at her sides. Behind the librarian, the imposing profile of Gustus stood out, arms loaded with more books and parchments, eyes entwined with hers for a moment. He stared at her long enough for Clarke to grow uncomfortable in her skin, a weird sensation tingling down her spine. Not speaking once, the Trikru slave fell into step after Monty's even gait, his towering figure easily keeping up with the boy's shorter strides.

Shaking off the awkwardness of the moment, Clarke huffed, back straight and determined, and dropped the broken vegetable on the pile of ruined carrots. She headed towards the castle's entrance with a renewed spring in her step.

She cuffed the back of Jasper's head on her way, drawing a choked curse that silenced his snicker.

+++++

Octavia heaved the basket of herbs on the counter, carefully selecting a few fragrant sprigs. She would lay out the rest to dry later and maybe prepare another batch for tea. She angled herself towards one cutting board, sniffing out the less dirty, and grabbed a knife from a nearby rack. She skillfully twisted her fingers around a marjoram top and started chopping in precise movements. She scooped up every scrap of food and tossed it in a bronze pot that was bumbling delightfully over the fire in the hearth. Wiping her hands on the apron tied to her waist, she lifted a brown bag over the counter, making a head of celery and a couple of carrots tumble out from its opening. She hooked one foot around a tall stool to bring it closer to her and grabbed one carrot along with a shorter knife, to peel the outer layer of whitish orange skin. She struggled a bit to find the proper rhythm because of the dullness of the blade. She would have to see Raven about that.

"It's ready, O!"

That might happen earlier than she had imagined.

Raven's figure burst through the door, the smell of fire clinging to her tunic. The blacksmith limped inside the kitchen, heavy bag slung over her back. Grinning obnoxiously, she dropped the bag on the counter with a loud clank, hitting a chair in the process.

"Ops," she tossed, bending to pick the fallen stool. As she resurfaced, she hit the basket of herbs with her shoulder, making it topple over its side and spill its contents on the table's surface. Octavia didn't resist the temptation to roll her eyes as she checked the contents of the pot over the fire.

"Would it kill you not to make a mess every single time?"

"Yes. Yes, it would." Raven ignored her stare and walked closer to the burning stove, "I'm just adding personality to your boring kitchen. This place is a complete mess even without my helping." She ran a hand through her hair and left a black streak of an obscure substance across her forehead. Checking the state of both her palms, she proceeded to wipe them on the front of her leather apron, with the lone result of widening the black stain.

Constantly stirring, Octavia side-eyed Raven as she reached for a spoon, stretching to her tiptoes to reach the shelf, "My kitchen is perfectly organized, catered to my needs, thank you very much. I don't barge into your forge and tell you where to move the anvil."

"Yes, you do." Raven snorted, bumping Octavia's shoulder as she dropped down to stand beside her again, "And I can count at least ten pots abandoned in that sink."

"This is a carefully arranged disorganization," she replied, clipping Raven's wandering hand with a wooden spoon.

"Hey," Raven withdrew her offended fingers with an outraged yelp, "Don't be mean to the crippled," she whined while retreating, making a point to emphasize her limp. Her brace was crude, a mess of jumbled wiry metal scrapped together, but otherwise very effective, sharpened under her own hammer during long hours in the forge.

Careful of the steam, Octavia tasted her stew. She hummed, lingering pleasantly on the earthy round taste, and turned back to face the blacksmith, who was attempting to clean a soot streak from her cheek in the opaque reflection of a pot. After a few futile attempts, Octavia huffed, utterly amused by Raven's ineptitude.

"Give me that," she snatched the old rag from Raven's hands and steered her friend to the nearest perch. She turned the towel to the last clean corner and began wiping the black streaks from the her forehead.

"Trying a new recipe?" Raven's curious smirk crooned under her ministrations and Octavia didn't fight a sudden blush that rose to her cheeks, preferring to unfold her lips in a snarky grin, "You hated the last one."

Raven's face morphed in a disgruntled expression, "Uh-uh. It was way too salty. But don't think you can hide that blushing secret from me again about these _new_ recipes. Spill!"

"You're looking into it too much," Octavia tossed the rag back in her face.

"Maybe no-thing, but some-one? Absolutely."

The tinkering of a row of glasses Octavia had painstakingly cleaned alerted them of a sudden stomping nearing the kitchen.

"I'd put those knives away, if I were you."

Octavia coughed a laugh and reached for Raven's bag on the counter as Clarke stormed inside the kitchen.

"Ugh! I hate it! When I finally put my hands on it..."

Raven gave Octavia a sidelong glance and a raised eyebrow, "Just to be on the safe side..." she suggested without moving her lips. Octavia rolled her eyes, but the knife immediately disappeared between the folds of her apron.

"That puny plume-plucked pigeon!"

"Thank you for repairing it, Raven," Octavia continued calmly, inspecting the metal kettle that was in the bag. Near the bottom, a reddish patch clashed against the grey colour of the rest of the kettle, the bronze a testament of Raven's latest repairs.

"Yeah, let me know how it holds up. You need me to fix anything else?"

"Actually-"

"Stop ignoring me." Clarke interrupted, crossing her arms over her chest, "I feel awful and I want to complain."

The other two traded cheeky grins, "Stop pouting, C. We're always prepared to listen to your daily dose of moaning."

Raven walked closer to the blonde gardener to put an arm around her shoulders, "Should I add another point to the Devil?"

Clarke huffed. "It's evil made flesh, Raven. I swear. Next time I'm gonna catch it with my own bare hands."

"Uh uh," Raven replied, slow and skeptical. Clarke bit down on the inside of her cheek to stop herself from sticking her tongue out.

Octavia turned back to her cutting board, crushing a garlic clove with the dull side of a wide knife, "Didn't you say the same thing last time?"

"Well-"

"Oh," Raven interjected, "Yeah, when it stole all the jars from the pantry?"

"I had so much jam in my hair it took me five washings to get it all off," Clarke grumbled, wiggling out from Raven's hold.

"And the flax flowers incident?" Octavia piped up, still bent over the counter, "It moved all the markers and when the flowers should have sprouted you had already shoveled them like weeds."

"I-"

"But my favourite is probably the broom. Remember when she-"

"Thank you, Raven, we get the point. You don't need to recall each tiny detail every single time," Clarke groused, dropping her head down.

"But it's funny."

"It's not," Clarke's muffled voice lurched on annoyance, "It's not."

The quiet humming of the boiling pot punctuated the brief silence.

"Well, it is a bit funny," Octavia offered, lifting the board from the counter to drop more chopped vegetables in the soup.

Clarke hid in her crossed arms, her anger cooling abruptly to leave her feeling like someone had scooped her insides out with a spoon. She stayed there, trying to block the world out for a moment. Sagging over her hunched shoulders, Clarke's muscles seemed to melt, feeling boneless.

"Don't you ever feel..." she sighed, appeasing her words carefully, "Don't you ever feel stuck sometimes? Like you're left wandering with nothing to do or nothing to aspire. Like, you're just waiting for things to happen, without doing anything." She passed one hand over her crooked mouth, grimacing, "As if you were a piece of broken wood, adrift in the strong river, just floating."

Raven's eyes flicked hesitantly over the slab of bread she was munching on.

"Maybe you're simply bored?" she asked, "You should try and pick up something new to do. Maybe get back into painting?"

Clarke shook her head, "It's more than that. I don't know, I feel restless," she paused, mulling over her own words, "I'm not complaining about the peace ro about my job. I just don't know."

"Cursed the man who lives in interesting times."

Clarke blew out her cheeks with a long sigh, "That's one way to put it."

Raven wrinkled her nose at Octavia, "Where have you heard that?"

"Uh," Octavia shrugged, "Somewhere?"

Raven narrowed her eyes, "Isn't that a Trikru saying?"

"Maybe?"

"From who?"

"A, uh, a friend."

"Smooth, Blake, really smooth. Don't think I'll forget about this," Raven threatened. At Clarke’s confused look, she flashed a brief cheeky smile. “Octavia is hiding something.” Her eyes flicked over to where the cook was working. When she caught Raven’s eye again, the blacksmith waggled her fingers in a lazy wave. "Or rather. She is hiding _someone_."

Clarke's eyebrows climbed higher on her forehead.

"I'm seventy-two percent certain it's a secret lover of sorts. It has to be," Raven continued, thrilled to have an audience willing to lend an ear to her theories.

"Is it true?" Clarke's laugh brought a bubble of unexpected excitement in her chest. The tips of Octavia's ears turned red, even though she tried to mask it with a scoff, "Don't listen to her, Raven is just messing with you."

Despite her words, the redness didn't recede from her tanned skin.

"Oh," Raven crossed her arms, smirking, "Then who is it that taught you this new soup recipe? Uh? Was it Bellamy? Or Jasper?"

"Yeah, tell us who you're blushing for, Octavia," Clarke teased.

Octavia lifted a knife in Raven's direction, a dangerous smile dancing on her lips.

"You better watch your mouth if you cherish your one functioning leg."

"You can't threaten a crippled," Raven raised both her palms in defense, "Clarke, help me."

A smirk tugged at her lips, "But it is so funny," Clarke winked at the blacksmith.

Laughing at Raven's grumbling, Octavia pressed on, "And you, Griffin, don't think I have forgotten about _your_ mysterious woman."

The gardener dropped her head in her hands.

"Ooooh," Raven crooned, "The thief!"

"I swear I saw her." Clarke groaned as matching smug grins appeared on her friends' faces.

"Slipping past the guards..."

"Without a weapon..."

"In the middle of the night..."

“Please, please. Stop.” Clarke interrupted flatly with the upbeat tone of somebody who's already heard the same argument multiple times in the past two weeks. The intruder hadn't appeared in as many weeks, and nobody had seen her again. That didn't stop Raven and Octavia from teasing her, amusement poorly hidden in their voices.

"Come on, Clarke. How could anyone slip undetected past the Ice Witch's guards? I mean, have you seen them? They are scary."

Raven dragged a hand over her pensive expression, "Please. Those tin men are barely intimidating they wouldn't even scare a ferret."

Octavia gave her a peeved look, "You're lucky they can't hear you."

They all knew Octavia's words rung true on their menacing undertone. Nia's guards, a small group of burly and rough men paid to follow the Queen's orders, represented the forceful and sometimes violent expression of Nia's siege. They usually stationed in the castle, tasked with patrolling as the detailed protection of her Majesty. It was unlikely for anyone to slip past them or worse, fight them, the fear instilled by cruel punishments they perpetrated to criminals and offenders.

Their mention, and especially their leader's name, Ontari, struck a shiver of fear in many. Whispered laughter and forced jokes were one of the coping mechanism the servants had developed to resist against them.

The more she thought about it, the more the idea of somebody escaping their patrol sounded feeble to Clarke's ears. And the image of the woman with smudged charcoal unfurled in her mind as an unsolvable conundrum.

Stuck in her thoughts, Clarke's gaze fell on the cutting board, inspecting the carrots tossed over its surface. Her mood darkened quickly, "You better hold on tight to those, Octavia," she droned, sulky and petulant in her drawl.

Before anyone could question her mood swing, the kitchen's door burst open for the third time, revealing a breathless Jasper.

"Clarke!" he choked, winded from the sprint, "You need to come, quick. It's back!"

With rushed anger fueling her joints, the blonde sprang up immediately, toppling down her stool to ran past him at a breakneck pace.

"Oh, hell no!"

+++++

It waited for her, perched on the low wall, neck arched arrogantly.

Since it had rampaged through that first rose bush, she didn’t know what to do with it.

Correction. She knew what she wanted to do. She wanted to make it someone else’s problem. Put her hands on that damned animal and toss it somewhere, far far from her garden.

Sadly, she would have to catch it, first.

The goose was clutching a ring of keys in its serrated beak, wings flapping insistently in the air. Clarke recognized the stolen keys as those that hanged from the hook in the tool shed, at least four feet above the floor.

"How did you even-" she cut herself off, raising her arms in a menacing stance. "Give those back!" she screeched to the animal. The bird folded its wings against its body and ruffled the tail feathers, not backing down.

"We do this the hard way, then."

After a moment of cautious study, Clarke dashed forward with a wild cry. The animal bent its neck low to duck under the blonde's outstretched arms, and circled behind her back. Recovering quickly, Clarke twisted mid-movement, using her momentum to keep barreling forward, scrambling to follow.

The goose navigated smoothly between upturned buckets and sprouting buds, while Clarke, despite having the advantage of being faster, had to juggle her bigger size. At each turn, she was forced to find alternate routes and inevitably extend her path as she hopped over tools and circled around rows of flowers, while the goose drew linear paths in her garden, constantly twisting and fleeing from her reach.

After a brusque turn, Clarke realized the animal was rounding back to the tool shed. Finally cornered between the small building and the castle walls, the goose stopped its mad run, coming to a halt on fumbling steps. Trapped, it stared back at her.

"Here, pest," Clarke huffed, hunching to make herself appear smaller, settling on a less threatening approach. "You're a good bird, aren't you? Yes, you are. So why don't you give me those keys back? And I promise I won't toss you into Octavia's oven. Uh? What do you say?" she chided, gritting her teeth. She approached cautiously, gaining few inches with each slow step. The goose remained motionless, following her movements with its curved long neck.

When satisfied with her positioning, Clarke launched herself forward to grab the animal. But the goose sidestepped once again her clumsy attempt, and the blonde landed in a puddle of mud. As she groaned and knelt back on the ground, the goose took advantage of her distraction to flurry away in a storm of feathers.

"You little..." Clarke bit the inside of her cheek, checking the mess she had made of her clothes, "Hopefully Harper won't get too mad..." she sighed, already dreading the seamstress' reaction. Brushing a hand over her jaw, Clarke forced her feet to move and follow the trail of plumes.

The goose sat waiting for her on the edge of the well, leaning the keys dangerously over the drop. Clarke stopped in front of him.

"Don't," she beckoned, suddenly nervous, "Don't even think about it..."

The goose blinked its lifeless eyes and smirked.

(Clarke didn't know if geese could smirk. But if they could, she was sure this one was smirking.)

"Okay, listen," she continued, hands hovering, "I don't know what you want, but please, whatever you do, don't drop those keys."

The bird honked in reply, a rough thunder cutting the air that drew a surprised yelp from Clarke. Mercifully, its beak had remained sealed around the circle of metal.

She seethed, "Listen, you little-"

The goose honked, interrupting her. The keys were still clutched in its beak.

"Okay, okay," Clarke repeated in a placating tone, as she stumbled for a couple of steps, "No insults, that's fair." she conceded, "Now, could you please get down from there? Please?" the animal arched its neck in her direction, while imperceptibly backing away from the well's edge.

"That's it, nice and slow. Come on, jump down," she chanted under her breath, as the goose's wobbly steps led it away from the centre of the well. Once it reached a relatively safe distance, Clarke sighed heavily, feeling relief washing through her veins.

"Thank you," she breathed. The goose turned on its webbed feet and started preening, lifting one wing at a time. Leaning back on her feet, Clarke studied its profile for a moment, the white plumage of the tail wagging in the sunlight.

"And, uh... I was kidding about that cooking stuff in Octavia's oven. I swear," the goose paddled again, circling lazily on its feet to blink back at her.

"Aaaaand now I'm talking to a goose. You really lost it, Griffin," she groaned and shook her head, "Now that you calmed down, could I please have my keys back?" her fingers wiggled in the universal 'gimme' gesture.

The goose had come full circle around before stopping in front of her, perched on the stone railing. It looked at her with a searching expression that Clarke matched head on, and slowly, ever so slowly, she started raising one hand towards it, inching closer. The goose made no reaction to move away, preferring instead to keep looking at her. As Clarke’s hand hovered inches from the keys she allowed herself a minute triumphant smile.

"You know, you're actually not bad when you're like this. It would be much better for everyone if you didn't destroy my garden every time you feel like it. It's not nice." Clarke kept a tortuously slow pace, not wanting to startle the animal.

The goose sneezed loudly, hopefully in agreement with everything she had said. And Clarke saw the keys disappearing under the well's rim, and heard the splashing that rippled the circle of water.

"You son of a-" she shouted, startling the bird who scuttered away and disappeared among the blackberry bushes while leaving behind a trail of honks and feathers.

Clarke guessed it was only her fault for trusting that damned bird when she spent the rest of the afternoon trying to fish the key ring from the bottom of the well with a minuscule bucket and a never ending stream of curses.

+++++

Clarke shuffled down the walkway, shutting the shed's door behind her with a tired sigh. Heaviness gripped at her sides and stuck like molasses to her limbs, impossible to shake away no matter how much she willed herself to. It was the kind of weariness that bordered drunken exhaustion and echoed in her bones like a muted drumming on a faltered tempo.

So she considered herself excused when she failed to notice the lean figure that sat cross legged on the curb, in the middle of her path. Clarke tumbled down to a stop on the gravel only inches from the stranger's boots.

"No theft accusation tonight?"

Clarke blinked until the dark smudges of paint around the intruder's eyes zoomed into focus.

“You!” Clarke hissed, widening her stance and forcing the gears of her tired brain to resume ticking.

The intruder smiled languidly, propping her chin on one hand, elbow bent on her knee. “Me.”

Clarke tried to come up with something more intelligent to say, but ended up repeating herself, “You!”

"Don't sound so happy to see me."

"Fuck."

The thief made a curious noise from the back of her throat and Clarke buried her face in her hands, not fighting the suffering groan that rose to her lips, "I though I had imagined you," she exclaimed, "It's been weeks!"

"Ouch."

Opening her eyes to peek between her fingers, she found the stranger sitting there, smirk very real and not a figment of her imagination. Clarke gestured helplessly at her, along with a variety of spluttered indignity.

"It's not nice, telling a girl she's so easily forgotten."

Clarke suppressed every word of fight that rose to the tip of her tongue, opting to focus on the clinking of her tired bones. She ignored the jab. "I won't stop you from doing whatever you have to do," she heaved, "If you're looking for a fight I'm afraid you'll have better luck with someone else."

"Oh," Clarke refused to identify the tilt in the stranger's voice as disappointment, "Then I think I'll just sit here quietly. Besides, I can't say I'm impressed with your patrolling guards."

The gardener half shrugged and half scoffed at her, the movement lost in the uncontrolled flailing of her limbs. Her response was swallowed by a yawn.

"Come on," the thief chuckled, leaning back on one bent elbow, "Sit down," she patted the spot beside her.

"As if I would ever sit next to a thief," Clarke replied before she sat down, grateful for the short reprieve. She chalked her recklessness up to tiredness, the same that was muting all the alarm bells in her head. She wanted to think that if she had been more awake, she would have at least alerted the guards. But the intruder seemed pliant and interesting and welcoming and harmless and she was tired.

"Well, lucky for you, I'm not a thief."

Clarke hummed, offering a noncommittal reply as she made herself more or less comfortable by tossing a couple of pebbles over her legs. The gesture was enough to get the intruder to turn her face to the side and spare her another glance.

After a moment of stillness where Clarke managed to get a hold on her dropping eyelids, the thief spoke again.

"Here," she said and Clarke felt gloved hands guiding her palms to accommodate them in a hold around a rake's handle, the tool appearing out of thin air, "Maybe it'll help you feel better."

"About letting a thief trample the castle grounds under my watch?"

"Not a thief," she repeated, in that same even levelheaded tone, "Besides, did you find anything missing?"

"It's a big castle," Clarke shrugged and adjusted her grip on the rake, "I don't know how anybody could keep track of anything in here."

"You have my word."

"I don't know how much worth it might have, being the word of a criminal."

The intruder chuckled and fed the night another pebble.

"And what a girl like you is doing outside in the middle of the night?"

Clarke rubbed her eyes, not chasing the rational side of her brain that was screeching at her, "Stopping thieves from doing their... thievery?" She wasn't sure she was making much sense, but exhaustion pulled at her from every corner.

"Fair enough," the intruder conceded, pausing to listen to a clink of pebbles.

Clarke swallowed another yawn and shook away the wet remains that blurred her vision. The conversation lulled, hitting an awkward patch. She suddenly perceived the intruder's presence as heavier, more unsettling and dangerous, almost like the first time.

She laid the metal tip of the rake on the intruder's shoulder.

"Worried?"

"Just being cautious."

For a moment, the intruder's expression flickered, from neutral geniality to an emotion too quiet for Clarke to recognize. Then she chuckled again.

"I would feel more at ease if you held a dagger to my throat."

"I'll remember to bring one next time," Clarke mumbled into her palm, reclining her head. She closed her eyes and tried not to think about the next time.

++++

Clarke jolted awake at the chirruping of the crickets surrounding her and took a moment to reorient herself. Her butt ached from small pinpricks of cold and she was slouching her head on the rake, the tool still trapped in her hands.

The intruder had left her dreaming.

++++++

This time, it was a candle.

The evil bird was running across her garden, clutching between the halves of its bright orange beak another candle. Monty had received the last shipment just a few days ago and Clarke would be damned if she didn't manage to prevent the first theft of the batch.

That's why she was barreling down at full speed after the goose with a plan.

The goose fluttered its wings, propelling itself to the side. A few steps behind, Clarke vaulted over the stony curb in one smooth movement without breaking stride.

If she didn't end up catching it, at least she would look cool.

She lost sight of the animal for a moment, but her eye caught on a movement hidden by blackberry bushes. Clarke smirked in an almost apologetic manner, looked briefly around the area, and kept running.

This time, Clarke was ready. She was prepared.

She closed the distance between them in less than a minute where the overflowing rows of bluebells tapered off into a bit of plain grass. Clarke lunged forward and missed a fistful of the goose's white plumage as the animal turned again, aiming for the tool shed.

She had approached Raven, first. Seeking help.

_Of course I'll help you catch that bird. I have the perfect idea. I just need three barrels of tar and two hundred meters of rope. Oh, and an axe, the biggest you can find. But maybe if we use a trumpet it'll be more effective. Okay, bring me three thousands sunflower seeds and a small drum and I'll have your trap ready before you can say 'Raven does it better'._

In the end, she chose a more direct approach.

She blocked another attempt of the goose to flutter away and instead pushed it further down the path. Only when the crooked tool shed's roof came into view she slowed down. If the goose decided to turn back on its feet, Clarke hoped she would be able to tackle it or funnel it back towards her carefully laid trap. She was the first to admit it wasn’t the most irrefutable plan in the world, but it was better than just winging it as usual.

She hoped Jasper would stick to his part.

The goose trotted onward unperturbed, running along the shed's wall. Jasper should be waiting after the corner, crouched and ready. Right before Clarke could admire her formidable plan come into fruit under her eyes, a cross between an embarrassing wheeze and a whiny choke shattered her carefully constructed scene. The goose tripped and stumbled on its own feet, alarmed by the sudden noise. It took Clarke a faltered beat to locate the source of the noise and her brain tossed an annoyed glare in Jasper' direction. Even from that distance, Clarke could see him flailing around, feet trapped in the net he should have tossed over the plumed criminal.

He had one job.

Come on.

Clarke bit back a curse and willed herself to move, to run once again after the thief.

“Stop!” she called out fruitlessly as the animal escaped further. She tried to ambush it but inevitably fell behind many steps.

She ducked at the last moment to avoid a low beam and realized she had reached the stables in her chase. The goose was paddling next to a stall when a munching horse neighed loudly, disturbed by the fluttering. The mare reared up and kicked its hooves on the wall. The nervous movement ricocheted with a weird sound down the structure.

Clarke snapped her head up in time to see the goose fly off the handle.

The bird honked its displeasure, chirping loudly with each skittish twist of its body. It flailed around in a small circle, raising a distressed cloud of hay and plumes. Its wracked state brought a ruckus in the stable. Nervous horses cried out in fear, the shimmering neighing growing more pitched and acute while Clarke jammed her hands over her ears.

The bird honked, unsure about which direction to take. It jumped at every noise, neck arched straight and tall, the best position for assessing an advancing menace. After a couple of failed attempts, the goose found the exit, sprinting like its life depended on it.

And Clarke was left alone with a trail of disrupted hay and a lot of unruly horses on her hands.

And a candle.

The same candle that was being stolen right under her eyes.

A surge of adrenaline shot up her spine.

"Yeah! Flee like the chicken you are!" she gloated, bending to pick up the retrieved candle.

She grinned madly as she brushed away the hay stuck to the wax. She clutched the candle like a trophy, broken in the middle but still hanging from the sturdy wick. She cheered loudly, whooping over the noises of the horses. She pumped her fist in the air. Giddy from the victory and drunk on excitement, she broke in an uncoordinated dance, a graceless blend of flailing limbs and half steps.

"Mh."

The sound of a clearing throat made her freeze, arms locking in an uncomfortable position of bent elbows. Painfully, Clarke turned, inch by inch, until she came to face Murphy's bored expression. The stable boy was standing in the middle of a stable aisle, gripping a threadbare broom in his bony fingers.

In the wake of his silent judgment, Clarke felt herself flush. An uncomfortable wave of heat rushed through her and the horses' panting suddenly sounded more like breathy snickering to her ears. She forced her limbs to move again, realigning them in a stiff posture.

"And that's how you do it, folks."

She avoided his eyes as she wobbled her way out of the stable, leaving the neighing of horses behind.

+++++

Blood lined up the edge of Ontari's dagger.The woman's smile darkened as she cleaned the blade on the underside of her tunic.

Clarke adjusted the cuff of her gloves and followed the trail of blood, bowing her head low as she walked past the woman. She stopped only after a few turns, coming to a halt in front of the beaten form of a slave.

After winning the war against Trikru, Azgeda had enslaved their survivors, forcing them to serve her, their own home turned jail. Even defeated, their punishment stewed for longer, through random beatings and mistreatment perpetrated by petty warriors like Ontari.

Anya sat under a secluded alcove, arms crossed and smeared, one palm pressed flat on the wall beside her. Her left eye was swollen, closed to a thin slit and a long cut traveled up her forearm, the redness sludging in the thickening light.

Clarke folded the corner of her gardening apron and knelt beside her.

"What are you doing?" Anya coughed and Clarke didn't like the wetness behind it.

"I just want to help you."

Anya gave her a look, "I don't need your pity."

"I'm not- I don't-"

"Don't touch me. And leave me alone," Anya staggered, heaved and rose on shaking legs. She shouldered past Clarke and it felt like hitting a wall.

She watched as Anya stumbled down the hallway. She didn't fall.

+++++

Falling into step between Octavia and Harper, Clarke's hand reached forward to pin a white bonnet on the top of her friend's head.

"Stay still, Octavia," she mumbled, struggling with the laces as they glided on the marble floor alongside with the other servitude, "It would have been better if-"

"If I've done it before, I know," her friend huffed, hands straightening the front of her apron, "But I told you, Clarke. I was busy!"

"Doing what?"

"Cooking dinner!"

"Supper isn't due for at least another six hours," Clarke insisted, finally successful in her attempts to clasp the bow around Octavia's head.

"It's a really long and uh, complicated recipe," Octavia hissed back, sidestepping Jasper's prone form, the boy tying the laces of his boots.

Clarke grumbled an unintelligible reply as they finally entered the servant hall and took their place among the others. The chamber - usually echoing empty during the week, was packed with buzzing bodies, all of Skaikru servants employed under Nia's castle. Clarke recognized the familiar faces of her friends in the crowd. Bellamy was awkwardly having a one sided conversation with Murphy, both leaning against the pillars at the edge of the crowd. Near them, Monty's flowing robe caught Clarke's eye, as the librarian pointedly elbowed Jasper, who was red cheeked and panting, one boot still unlaced. They were both pointing towards a gossiping group of maids, where Clarke noticed Maya's presence. The maid was pretty in a kind of plain way, and she could see why she had caught Jasper's attention.

She thanked distractedly Harper as the seamstress finished adjusting the knot of her apron, while she pushed the last of Octavia's wild strands under the cap. As she exposed the skin behind the left ear, a worrying purple bruise surfaced on her neck.

"Octavia!" she gasped, loud enough to attract Raven's attention, who was standing one row over from them.

"Ssh!" Octavia whispered, trying to silence her friend among a small crowd of turning heads.

"Octavia!" Clarke repeated, voice lowered in a harsh hiss, "What happened to you?"

"What?"

"You have a bruise on your neck!"

"It's nothing," the cook murmured back, ducking her head to raise one hand over the mark, "Don't worry, it's nothing."

"Nothing? It's a bruise, Octavia, it's-"

"Clarke," Octavia interrupted her panicked rambling, "Trust me, it's... it's nothing."

The words died on the tip of her tongue, as Clarke noticed the blush peppering Octavia's cheeks, the redness trailing down under the hem of her tunic. The shy tilt of her lips, curled upwards in an hesitant smile. After a beat, Raven's tickling snicker pealed in her ears, the blacksmith caught in the throes of muffled laughter. At Octavia's avoiding eyes, Clarke felt blood rushing to her own face, heat pulsing under her skin.

She was thankfully spared from Raven's teasing by a booming voice that rumbled in the large chamber like a roaring thunder.

"Everyone," it started, quickly stamping out the lazy chatter in the background, "Thank you for your attention."

Roan's bulky figure stood tall at the top of the stairs, heavy and tired, towering over the short governess beside him. Everybody in the castle whispered about Roan, Queen Nia's son, the shunned prince who had been forced by his own mother to serve inside the castle walls, among Skaikru servants, surrendering the general title to his bastard sister, Ontari. Despite being taller than almost every present in the room, Clarke always perceived him as small, closed on himself and drowning in shame.

She couldn't find any semblance of pity inside her.

"Thank you for coming today even with such short notice," he repeated, as if any of them had any real choice in the matter, "I am aware this meeting interrupts all your schedules, so I'll keep this as brief as possible."

"First, I wish to thank you for all your meticulous work. On behalf of her Majesty, the Queen, and the entire Azgeda Nation, I bring you our gratitude. These months, albeit few, have further cemented the strong alliance between the Sky and the Ice clans. Our Queen's most important wish is that this era of peace will last for many years to come, under the values of respect, justice and equality." At the fallen pause, Clarke heard somebody lost in the crowd scoff harshly, and the sound bounced clearly in the wide space. Nonetheless, Roan remained dutifully impassible, unflinching against the open scorn. Clarke saw the defeated warrior trembling in anger through his cracks, as his stance stiffened further under their scrutiny.

"To celebrate our bond, the Queen had declared that a party will be held in our castle, exactly two months from today," he boomed, voice strained, "Everyone is invited. Every citizen of this land, be they of Azgedan or Skaikru origin, can attend to the celebration, and..."

His voice grew fainter, drowned by the excited hum that sailed through the hall. Clarke felt Octavia pull at her elbow, as Raven's excited shout reached her ears. While the offering party was less than desirable - the Ice Queen herself - a feast was nothing to be scoffed at. Especially for a group of young rampant adolescents.

Parties meant vacation and free time. They meant alcohol and food and expensive wine. And fancy dessert and obnoxiously luxurious decorations. A blessed reprieve from work.

Cynically, Clarke understood the ploy for what it was. _Panem et circenses_ , her teacher Jaha had taught her when she was just a child. It meant one day of celebration weighed against gruesome long hours of work. One collective breath of air gifted to all citizens, so Nia would assure herself they wouldn't revolt against her reign, against her suppression or her injustice.

But, no matter how much she believed the opposite, they were all young. Children. And the world granted them to have fun sometimes.

Clarke watched as Roan's words were covered by the hall's raucous babble. He struggled to regain attention and order, but the servants were more interested in elbowing each other than listening.

"Is there any problem here?"

A single crystalline note pierced the air, a voice that immediately demanded attention.

Silence fell in the room, as every laugh quieted down and every head snapped up. Queen Nia strolled leisurely, entering from a small door next to the staircase. Ontari's figure loomed behind her shoulder, silent and ready to pounce.

"Are you not capable of keeping your servants under control," the queen paused, the glinting of her crown as cold as her eyes, "Prince Roan?"

Her stare traveled slowly over each person in the room. Clarke felt Octavia fidget beside her.

"What I value," the queen continued, tone even and low as her eyes paused on Roan's figure, "Is discipline and order, above anything else."

The governess paling next to the prince took a step back.

"And discipline is in the fist of the one who demands it. Should I remind you, Prince Roan? Ontari will be pleased to help."

The curl of Ontari's smile deepened.

"No, your Majesty. That will not be necessary." Roan turned slightly on his feet, careful not to present his back to the queen. Nia waved his attention away with a lazy gesture.

After a moment of pause, Roan's voice intoned, without regaining an ounce of strength, "The party will require special preparations. Merchants will be..."

His words filtered in Clarke's ears, turning and warping until they became an interrupted drone. She saw Harper clench her fist, hidden in the front pocket of her apron. She felt Raven stiffen behind her. Jasper's drumming foot had stopped its bouncy rhythm.

Nia almost smiled as she looked down at them.

++++++

Later that same evening, she didn't question why she found herself back in the garden. None of the plants needed immediate tending. Instead, she hitched the lantern higher on her shoulder and followed the rhythm of her stride.

The image of Nia overlapped in her mind with the harsh memory of her eyes, pale slits of wrath. She shivered and felt something coil in her stomach. Her restlessness traveled down to the echoes of her steps on gravel.

She was sitting in the exact same place as the other night, legs crossed at the ankles. Cloaked by darkness, her figure slowly unfurled under the approaching light. When Clarke didn't move from her anchored spot, the thief raised one hand to shield her face from the harsh glow of the lantern.

Clarke sighed but sat down after a beat, slumping boneless to the ground. The lantern swung between them from its hook and shadows danced on their skins.

"Rough day?"

"Don't," Clarke sighed, hand raised, "I don't have the will nor the patience to deal with you tonight."

If she had been more clear headed, she would have winced at her harsh tone. But she was still running on nervous energy, ready to snap at anybody who dared to stare in her direction weirdly.

"I get it," the intruder continued, foolishly heedless of her peeved mood. She uncrossed her long legs and stretched, "I'm an acquired taste, after all. It takes a certain amount of skill and patience to deal with the likeness of myself." As she moved leisurely, the light bounced on one of the intruder's boots. Clarke noticed a wooden charm entwined between the laces.

She sighed and the sour expression that she thought was permanently etched into her features dropped. Clarke fought uselessly against a weary half chuckle that lifted one corner of her mouth.

"You go ahead and flatter yourself," she snorted, to her dismay amused at the intruder's antics, "Just keep quiet for a bit, okay?"

Frustration pulled at her sides once again, but the pressure had lightened. The thief stared at her for a long moment in silence, and Clarke refused to meet her eyes, preferring to stare right ahead into the darkness. She didn't want to think about what would happen if a guard found them.

"Lexa."

That made her turn.

The thief wasn't looking at her, but straight ahead, chasing the same pattern of thoughts Clarke was following.

"It's my name," the intruder - Lexa shrugged, tossing one small pebble into the shadows, "Thought you'd like to know."

A moment of silence lapsed between them, one she felt the need to shatter.

"Clarke." she offered back, weirdly touched by the unexpected confidence.

Lexa accepted her gift with a nod and fed the darkness another pebble. She smiled impishly up at Clarke for a moment, eyes scrunched up against the light, "Pleased to officially meet you, _Klark_."

She pronounced her name like it was a completely different word, the harshness of the r rounded down to a velvety click.

"I'd say likewise, but I don't usually find myself in the company of thieves."

Lexa's hum built into a smile as they both turned to face the darkness.

A willow tree swayed in front of them, breaching through the night. Quiet lingered around them like a fallen leaf.

++++++

The following days brought a lighter load of work for Clarke. Her hours were mostly spent between collecting ripe strawberries and dropping them on Octavia's counter, while also scheming behind her back with Raven to steal from the pantry a jar of strawberry jam. She meticulously cleaned the soil from sprouting weeds and replanted a couple of bushes of drooping bluebells, shielding them from the still too harsh late summer sunlight and dousing them with fresh water. She got lost in Monty's library for a few hours and helped Luna sort out a couple of tomes on the medicine shelf. In return, the quiet servant helped her choose a nice book to read under the shade of birches during lunch breaks.

Returning to routine for a bit felt blissful. It was nice not to be fighting wild birds or be swamped by chores as usual. The recent news of the incoming celebration had left a buzzing behind, one that left a sinking weight in Clarke's stomach.

She was kneeling over a growing patch of carrots, the only miraculous survivor of the previous assault, when her peace was broken.

"Playing among the dirt, _grous Skaikru_?"

Ontari's antagonism was the last thing she needed.

Careful of her fleeting temper, Clarke stayed low, pushing the warrior's sneer out of her mind. She knew the Azgedan warrior was trying to rouse her without a true reason. The fragile peace Nia had acquired didn't sit well with Ontari, who was incapable of detaching from the warrior in her and thus always brewing a fight. She had seen many times the results on Anya's battered body, the proud Trikru slave who snapped too easily under Ontari's taunts.

" _Yo ste briyon to remain silent_ ," Ontari bristled, a shadow looming over her, "And to kneel before your future Heda."

Clarke willed her face to remain expressionless, schooling her features in an uncaring look, while she hid her clenched fists in the soil and struggled to quench the anger rooting in her belly.

"Skaikru," Ontari spat the words in utter disgust, lips rounding around the word like it was the foulest she had ever tasted. The Azgedan warrior crushed one sprout under the heel of her boot and stomped away, her steps punctuated by a haughty cackle.

Clarke let all the fury pool in her chest before washing it away with a long sigh. It was pointless, energy wasted over someone who didn't want to listen. She shouldered her posture, making her way to the trampled plant. Ontari's arrogance had always been a barrier between her and the simple traces of life, as the warrior refused to lower herself to smaller things. With a grin, Clarke pictured announcing to the warrior how her childish stomping didn't cause much damage on the root, except for adding to her image of annoying brat. Despite looking worse for wear, Clarke's skilled eye deemed the plant in optimal conditions, only marginally bothered by human violence.

After straightening the stem, Clarke shuffled back, wiping her palms on the front of her tunic. And then she noticed another shadow looming at the edge of her vision. When the gardener lifted her head, the shadow flapped its wings. She tensed as she recognized the threat, hunching further on herself, ready to spring and fight and scream.

The goose stared at her for a long moment, surveying the carrots. It lazily preened under her eyes.

"You here to destroy more of my lonely carrots?" she grunted, boldly meeting the bird's stare without prudence.

The animal fluttered its wings, lifting the smallest cloud of dust. It paddled on its feet, before bolting off and leaving Clarke to blink at its empty spot.

She was hunching forward and trying to ignore the burning in her thighs when the goose came back, crossing her line of vision for the second time. It was running at full speed with a sheathed dagger dangling from its beak. She half expected the bird to come at her, but the animal didn't cease its run, and instead dashed away, disappearing behind a pillar.

" _Comba hir, yu branwoda omi!_ "

After a confused beat, Ontari appeared from the same direction, cursing and frothing from the mouth, her cherished blade missing from the belt.

" _Ai na frag yu op en skin daun yu kiken!_ "

+++++

"Wait, wait," Octavia paused to wipe at her eye, "She did what?"

"It's true!" Clarke replied belly hurting from laughter.

When Raven later showed up in the servant's communal area, she saw the two of them laughing.

“Well, you’re all laughing so I know you can’t be working,” she proclaimed, limping forward with a small smirk.

"Raven," Octavia wheezed, breathing through her mouth, "Clarke was just telling me about Ontari."

"What happened to that deranged nutcase?"

"The goose stole her dagger."

Raven whistled lowly, "Ontari's dagger? That dagger?"

Clarke nodded before launching in a brief recount of the afternoon, her tale punctuated by Octavia's quirky commentary.

"That seems like one good reason to keep that damned bird away from the oven, uh, Clarke?"

The gardener narrowed her eyes, "Don't even joke about that. That bird is the scourge of my garden," her serious expression dropped slightly, "Though I suppose it did win a few points in its favour."

"Oh, come on!" Raven flourished dramatically, smacking Octavia's shoulder, "It battled for your honor against a fearsome Azgedan warrior."

"And it won!" Octavia added from her perch on an old armchair.

"Shut up," Clarke grumbled, hiding in her cup of tea. The blacksmith brushed a finger under her nose, running a streak of ash on her cheeks and Octavia guffawed a short laugh, turning back to her own drink.

Raven twisted in her seat, "Looks like a goose is a better fighter than you, Anya."

Only in that moment Clarke noticed Anya's presence in the room, the slave standing to the side, sorting few items in a near cabinet. A white puckered line ran along her forearm.

At her narrowed glare, Clarke feared for Raven's life. But the blacksmith didn't notice or simply chose to ignore it. "At this point I'm convinced even I could defeat you in a fight." she said, glancing at Anya. After a tense beat, she shuddered, "I was kidding. Please don't destroy me."

To Clarke's shock, Anya rolled her eyes and ducked inside the cabinet again.

For the rest of the evening, the three friends chatted easily, letting the laughter carry them in the warmth of the room. Clarke had known Octavia since childhood, the two of them growing together, sharing dreams and toys and games. Bellamy, Octavia's brother, had tagged along most of the time, and Clarke remembered him fondly, like an older brother with curly hair and missing teeth. The three of them had moved together to work in the castle after the war, and there Clarke had encountered Raven, a limping blacksmith with a snarky stubborn streak. She had clicked in their duo like a missing gear, earning her spot among them.

"By the way," Octavia began, words muffled around a pastry, "Have you met your mystery woman again?"

"That mystery woman?" Raven piped up.

"Uh-uh. Clarke's been meeting with her for the past nights."

"Really?" the blacksmith crossed her arms, huffing, "Is there anybody who does not have a secret lover around here?"

"She's not my lover," Clarke rolled her eyes and stretched, leaning back in her seat, "But yeah. I met her again," she yawned, "I also learned her name."

Octavia reached for another pastry, "Don't be catty, Clarke. Tell us." Raven tossed a crumble in her direction, hitting the cook in the middle of her forehead.

"You were mean and you didn't believe me," Clarke pointed out, .

"That was before it was proven she was real."

Clarke stuck her tongue out at them, "She said her name is Lexa."

"Lexa?" Octavia repeated.

"Yeah. I don't know whatever to believe if it's her real name or not."

Raven spluttered and shook her head, choking on nothing.

"Maybe it's short for something, like Alexandria," Octavia replied, and her words sounded more like a question as she shot a confused look at the blacksmith's reaction, "I told you, if she's-"

"Don't worry. She isn't dangerous. And she's not gonna kill me." Clarke shrugged with the ease of a long term friendship, "Not yet, at least."

Recovered from her sudden spluttering, Raven turned in her seat and angled herself in Anya's direction. A weird look crossed her face, something that Clarke confusedly catalogued on the short side of betrayal. The blacksmith snatched her hands back from the armrests and glanced pointedly at the pitcher Anya was cleaning.

Clarke shook her head before continuing, "No, she's just really frustrating. And annoying."

Reassured, Octavia placed a warm hand on her shoulder.

“Oh - uh. Oh ,” Raven said intelligently, blinking out of her weird stupor. When Clarke peeked out from the crook of the elbow she had comfortably snuggled into, she saw her nodding assuredly to herself, one of her usual cheeky grin forming on her face.

"Are you sure you hadn't drunk one glass too many of moonshine?"

"I didn't imagine her. She's real," Clarke said, ruffling herself indignantly, "Not everyone is a lightweight like you."

"I'm not."

"You are, Raven."

"Speak for yourself, Griffin. Last time I found you neck deep in an argument with an oak. And it was only after two pints of beer."

"Says the one who tried to seduce Bellamy armed with a bottle of wine and some crushed pastries."

"Eeew, that's my brother, Raven. Ugh, now I need to bleach my mind."

They sniped and teased each other until the candle grew short on the table and a content exhaustion settled in their bones. Until the angry scowl of the head governess chased them away from the communal room, banished by her short sight and sturdy cane.

When she retired to her quarters, Clarke had almost forgot the weird expression that had crossed Raven's face.

++++++

Clarke leaned back against the plum tree, sitting cross legged beneath its thin sinewy trunk, the rough bark scraping against her loose shirt. The pressure felt pleasant on her shoulders. She cradled a spade and a cutting stone in her lap. With slow, rhythmical movements, she sharpened the edge of the tool, clearing it from dry clumps of dirt that stuck to the metal.

"Outside and alone in the middle of the night? It could be dangerous. You never know who you might meet."

The voice came from the darkness above, as the sound of the wind whirling through leaves enveloped the words. After a beat, Clarke suppressed the first instinct of alerting the guards and didn't hesitate to ease back in a comfortable position.

She scoffed, "I can fight a petty thief who's so foolish enough to try and sneak behind castle walls."

Lexa's shadow dropped down in front of her in a silent crouch, swinging from the branch above with an innate grace. She barely left a trail of leaves behind. She rose in a fluid motion, shifting on her feet to place a hand on her hip.

"You really think you can beat me in a fight?"

"Are you admitting that you are a thief?"

Lexa merely lifted one eyebrow, face free of smeared dark paint, "Only if you can beat me."

Clarke's rebellious streak flared under her fingertips, "You want to go right now?"

But Lexa's stare dimmed around the edges. Her shoulders slumped forward in a minuscule movement and she waved away the offer, "Maybe another time," she walked closer to Clarke, dropping the bravado, "When you actually stand a chance."

Clarke laughed delightedly, swallowing her proud answer as she noticed the fatigued slouch in Lexa's stride. Exhaustion lines ran across her narrowed brow as she looked down at the gardener through tired eyes. Clarke saw the circles in her eyes and the image of Lexa dragging herself through shuffling steps only to meet her in the middle of the night twisted her chest in a weird direction.

"It's an accomplishment that a thief like you hasn't been caught yet."

Despite her tiredness, Lexa sat slowly, back straight against the tree trunk, and Clarke followed her movements from the corner of her eyes. Angry red marks crisscrossed the length of both her wrists and forearms.

"What are these?" Clarke's hands hovered over Lexa's tanned arms.

Lexa didn't shy away from her gaze, nor did she try to cover the marks.

"It's nothing," she replied, lifting one arm for inspection, "I had a tumble down a couple of blackberry bushes. They don't even hurt anymore."

"Tripping on your own feet? That's not a useful skill for a thief. Nor graceful."

Lexa settled on an amused expression, smile pulling at her eyes.

"You should at least wash them," Clarke offered, eyeing the streaks and specks of dirt that covered her. Lexa hummed her agreement. Every time they met, Lexa looked like she had crawled through miles of dirt and leaves with twigs in her hair, knees speckled with dirt and roots stuck to the soles of her feet. It added a ruffle of charming ineptitude to her.

"What are you even doing, sneaking in here in the middle of the night?"

Lexa scuffed her boots on the gravel, settling down further in her spot, "Shouldn't you be rounding up your guards, instead?"

Clarke cracked another smile and took the deflection in stride, "No, I don't feel like it tonight." she shrugged, surprising herself at the honesty behind it.

Lexa looked at her, stare hardened in search of something. Clarke didn't dare ask if she had found that something.

"I'm looking for something."

"Oh, yeah. Thief things."

She felt Lexa huff a breathy laugh as she continued, "And what is it, that thing you're looking for?"

"I can't tell you."

"Aw, you still don't trust me? I thought not calling the guards really helped my case."

By way of an answer, Lexa's mouth tightened. "I can't," she repeated to her lap.

Clarke closed her eyes to avoid Lexa's eyes. She felt hurt by the rejection, but she wasn't the kind of person who cornered other people into an answer. She leaned back, stare hardened in a stern look, refusing to show weakness in the face of a petty question like this.

"Those flowers," Lexa's voice strained to get even, "They are beautiful."

She was pointing to a cluttered bunch of flowers, waves of white and purple and orange disclosing in the night. Tubular blooms dancing in the wind. But the gardener ignored Lexa's awkward attempt at smoothing things. Clarke bit down on her lip, and lifted one hand up to her face to push some hair out of her eyes.

On her behalf, Lexa persisted serenely, "It's weird. They are in bloom even if... it's night," the words rose in pitch to compose a question.

Clarke sighed internally, washing away the frustration, "They are called 4 o'clock flowers. They only bloom in late afternoons and evenings."

Lexa stared with keen eyes at Clarke, whose expression was one of curious glee, “I had no idea such flowers existed.”

The anger cooled to a smile, "Yeah. Those are pretty cool flowers. They can grow everywhere, even in a poor soil. And their colours are beautiful. But they bloom late in the day, so it's a shame no one is around to enjoy them."

"I'm honored I get to see these flowers blooming. With the daylight I can't enjoy flowers as much as I wish I could."

Clarke blinked, "You know that's a vampire thing, right? Are you a vampire?"

Lexa smiled and rubbed one of her wrists, scratching the pinkish skin, "You do know a lot about flowers."

Clarke took the comment in stride, "That's fortunate, because it's kinda my job, knowing about them. I'm a gardener," Clarke batted Lexa's fingers away, "Don't touch that, it's healing."

"But it itches," Lexa replied evenly and Clarke wondered what her pout looked like, "The first time we met, I thought you were a guard. And then you went and fumbled your way through that threat. I immediately scratched that idea."

"Ah!" Clarke balked a laugh, "I certainly don't wish to become a guard under Nia's reign. Heavens help me if I do. And I don't fumble. I was pretty menacing!" A thought dawned on Clarke, "Wait, that's why you didn't bolt? Because you though I couldn't take you in a fight?"

Lexa merely turned away from her. Her face remained composed, but Clarke saw the hints of a cheeky smile twinkling in her eyes.

"I don't care how big and strong you think you are. I am fierce and scary."

"You are quite scary."

"You'll see when I defeat you in that fight. Because I will. I will win, you cheeky thief."

"Shaking like a leaf."

++++++

The stables were smellier than usual.

Clarke was used to working in the dirt; fertilizer smell didn't bother her anymore and she wasn't easily disgusted by pungent smells. But the last of the lingering summer haze stuck to horses like fog, adhering to their sweaty manes and muzzles. She pitied Murphy much more in the warmer months, but no matter the weather the stable boy always came across as unfazed and uncaring.

In the slow sunny afternoons, Clarke discovered a little bit more about Murphy. If there was something he appeared to marginally care about, that was horses. He seemed much more at ease among them than among his human peers. Hell, Clarke remembered arguing with him once about horse shit used as fertilizer being actual shit for her crops and that it was a terrible addition to the nutrients of the soil. Murphy had protested and complained like it was the worst insult she had ever uttered in her life.

But being a gardener meant producing crops for every munching inhabitant of the castle. That's why she found herself heaving a heavy sack of corn over the stables entrance with a panting huff.

"This is the last, Murphy!" she called, tidying her hands over the front of her tunic.

Brushing the flank of a bronze mare, Murphy merely nodded in her direction.

"Wouldn't kill you to say thank you..." Clarke mumbled under her breath. Stomping pettily, she passed the last aisle of the stables and noticed a scrawny kid with chicken legs huddled in a corner. He was chattering animatedly with somebody.

"Aden?"

The boy turned and grinned at her, hand open in a greeting, "Clarke!" he exclaimed around his missing front tooth.

Clarke smiled softly, easing in her soft spot for the kitchen boy. Though he had only been a toddler at the time war collapsed between Azgeda and Trikru, orphan of both parents, perished in the war, Aden had been enslaved along with the others prisoners. As soon as he had been able to count until a hundred, he had been tossed a cap and promoted to errand boy.

That grim fate didn't stop him from carving a warm spot in the heart of many inhabitants of the castle.

"How are you, Aden?"

"I'm good," he offered, "I'm hanging around with my friend." Clarke noticed corn seeds spilling from his hands. Clarke assumed he was probably referring to one of the horses.

She didn't expect to be greeted by a flurry of white.

"You!"

The goose honked, making Aden smile his toothy smile. He pulled a small bag of seeds out of his pocket and passed it over to her.

"Here, try feeding it."

Clarke gaped at him, "But, you- you-"

"It doesn't bite," he promised with the spontaneity of a child, ignorant of Clarke's internal battle, and shoveled more food at the bird. The goose honked and touched with its beak his small hand. At his laughter, it craned its neck downwards, rifling the ground for crunchy seeds.

She blinked at the scene, puzzled. Her sworn enemy was lazily accepting food from a kid. Without destroying anything. Just missing quills from its wings. Eating corn. Chirruping and clucking quietly.

Wait, what?

Clarke squinted at the animal. She hadn't noticed the state of its wings, but now that she paid closer attention she could clearly spot some new gaps in the white fan of its wings. And a bald streak ran on its belly, a slim pinkish line on its otherwise white belly.

She had never seen it injured before.

Clarke had the decency to commit to an expression of nervous worry, scared the bird would kick off into an uncalled rampage at any moment.

"Aden, I don't think-"

"Hey." A clipped voice from behind pulled her attention away and she spun to see one crossed face looking down at her.

"Is everything okay here, kiddo?" Murphy asked as he came forward.

"John!" Aden greeted him with a crooked smile.

"John?" Clarke mouthed back, incredulous.

"Look John, look. I'm feeding the goose."

Murphy's face did something unimaginable and softened around the edges.

"I see that. Looks like you're doing a great job." he half smiled - a true half smile, not even a smirk - and nodded to the bird, who was fluffing its plumage. Aden bent down to bop the animal on the top of its head and then proceeded to laugh when it scrolled vigorously.

"Clarke's helping me."

Clarke’s gaze drifted off to the side, suddenly embarrassed.

"Yeah," she shrugged, accepting of her impending doom, "We're just feeding the goose."

Murphy lingered behind, appeasing her for a moment.

Aden put with the upmost care a few seeds in Clarke's palm, "I told you it doesn't bite." he said, and the goose's slight wobble did reassure her a little.

She smiled.

"You're right," she said and knelt to lay the seeds at its feet.

+++++

The yard was more crammed than usual, drumming on the fast tempo of servants, each holding on to something in the sea of bodies; a sack of flour or a curtain rolled on a pole. A precious load of exotic spices or heavy barrels of beer. Clarke spotted the many faces of her friends in the crowd, as they piled in lines to unload crates from the back of merchants' wagons.

Clarke found herself near one of those, lounging around an old rickety cart that belonged to a couple of merchants. The man - gray beard braided in multiple intricate tresses - was expertly maneuvering Gustus in handling his crates, each of them filled to the brim with exquisite fabrics. They traded short words as they worked in tandem, in that heavy accent of the language Clarke learnt to call Trigedasleng during her months at the castle.

After a moment of staring, she turned back to her companion, "I'm glad your father is faring well."

"Yes," Niylah replied, voice rich and exotic exactly like Clarke remembered, "The warmth of _sontan_ had done him good. He loves to sit on the porch to watch the sunset," Niylah dropped a roll of fabric in Clarke's expectant arms, "After that he goes back to his work as usual, like there's nothing else more important than sewing tunics and cloaks."

Clarke smiled gently, pleased to hear that. On one of their first encounters, Niylah had narrated how she had escaped with her father inside the borders of Azgeda after the fall of the Mountain. Living in the territory between Nia's and Trikru kingdoms, it hadn't been difficult for them to cross the borders at the first sign of danger. And by fleeing, they had escaped slavery.

When Niylah had recalled her story, Clarke had felt irritation build up her spine, despising how easy it had been for them to turn their backs on their own Kru to save themselves. Those feelings battled inside her, until Clarke had met Niylah's father. Frail and weak, plagued by illness, he had meekly smiled at her over the edge of his scarf, perched on the coachman seat of their cart. The stubborn flame in his eyes had reminded her of her own father's. And her feelings of animosity had morphed into profound comprehension. In the end, the image of Niylah's sick father erased every cruel thoughts she might had, leaving behind shards of bitterness towards Nia.

"I don't think you are any different."

"Well," Niylah hummed, trying and failing to mask the cloud of stormy fondness in her eyes, "He could leave me more freedom in our trading. I am gonna fill his shoes, one day."

"Haven't you showed him your work?" Clarke asked and dropped one end of her load to the groung to inch closer to the merchant, "Surely with the party coming closer he'll take a look at your dress designs."

Niylah shuffled on her feet until Clarke could feel the warmth of her shoulder seeping through the tunic, "I know he will," she inhaled deeply, "I'm just scared they won't be good enough."

"I'm sure they're awesome," Clarke reassured, idly brushing a feather off Niylah's tunic, hand lingering on her forearm. The fabric that was hanging under her hand shifted to the side at the movement, until an inch of skin peeked from the collar.

"You think so?" Niylah said as she grabbed Clarke's load, sharing the burden between them. There was a certain edge to her smile as she erased another inch between them.

Clarke nodded gratefully at the timely save. "I know so. You have such talented hands for sewing."

The suggestive look Niylah sent her way forced a blush on her, a lazy pinkish colour that spread over her cheekbones, "My hands aren't only good for sewing, you know."

Clarke let her lips curl around a corner as they deposited their load on a table.

Compared to her other Skaikru friends, Niylah had rapidly became a pleasant acquaintance, someone to blow off steam with once in a while every time the Trikru merchant came to palace for trading. It was a casual fun encounter, one that benefited both of them. And while Clarke didn't mind her company, she wasn't interested in anything more serious than that.

"Say," Niylah continued, pressing more of herself against Clarke's side, "It seems like father and Gustus will have their hands full for quite some time. Wanna go somewhere else and wait for them?"

Clarke smirked and pushed herself away from the table, escaping from Niylah's loose grip. She had a suggestion on the tip of her tongue, provocative enough to lead the conversation, but something made her trip in the middle of her suave response.

A few steps away from them, like an harbinger of bad omens, a familiar goose stood assuredly on its webbed feet. It was clutching a brownish candle in its beak, the cylinder dangling dangerously on the verge of slipping through its jaws.

Halted in mid thought, Clarke simply stared, puzzled by its silent appearance. She hadn't really seen much of the bird in the last days. Even though she kept hearing from Monty about missing candles and misplaced helmets.

Niylah cleared her throat beside her and she felt her body grew warm in embarrassment, feeling ridiculous under Niylah's gaze, frozen like this.

"Is that a goose?"

Clarke swallowed her angry answer, eyes trained on the bird.

"Clarke?" Niylah asked again. As she came closer, Clarke felt a palm touching her delicately and a cool ring of fingers winding around her forearm, sneaking in the space between her side and her arm.

The goose honked, flapping its wings in a flurry.

"Wha-"

The animal launched against them, barreling forward, head held high.

"Hey!" Niylah cried out, as the bird tried to bite her calf, " _Chon ona skafa?_ "

The animal honked again, louder, and pushed forward, heedless of her protests. It forced Niylah to loosen and then completely drop her grip on Clarke's arm.

Never before the bird had tried to attack her. Not even once.

"Clarke! _Sisen!_ " Niylah's panicked call rang, "Go away you stupid bird!" Niylah hopped from one feet to another, arms wailing, "What do you want from me? Shoo, go away!"

She tried to kick it away but the goose recoiled, easily evading her attempt. Shaken out of her stupor, Clarke ran in aid, armed with mere determination.

The three of them got caught in a weird dance, a cross mismatch of false steps and spurned turns. Despite their efforts, the goose fended off each of their attacks, eluding their circling and swatting. In turn, after each of their failed thrusts, the bird concentrated its biting on Niylah, seeming hell bent on chopping at least one of her fingers.

After a few moments of stumbling, they reached a standoff that lasted until Gustus and Niylah's father came forward, attracted by the noise and armed with rolled poles of fabric. Now severely outnumbered, the goose realized its disadvantage and pulled back on its feet, startled by Gustus, who managed to poke its flank. Wide eyed, the animal flapped and turned to flee under a row of bushes of drooping roses.

The goose had never attacked before. But that was something she wasn't comfortable in disclosing to the merchant, so she settled for listing the knowledge away for more pensive moments alone.

Panting and red faced, Niylah and Clarke traded crazed looks, both trying to get a grip on the weird turn of that encounter. Clarke noticed a white feather trapped in Niylah's hair, the silver of a question.

She didn't raise her fingers to pluck it out from between her soft tresses.

"Niylah?"

She pointed to the same spot in her own hair, as Gustus knelt to retrieve the fallen candle.

++++++

Clarke made her next round to check on the flowers four days later, on a clear and serene night.

The wisteria were in full bloom, a shimmering rainbow of violet, even while the spot under the plum tree remained empty. Shadows rushed to fill the human imprint of Clarke's memory.

The gravel crunched pleasantly under her feet as she circled back to the yard. Another empty spot, just over the jasmine archway.

It wasn't like they had a spoken arrangement. She couldn't expect her to be there every night. She probably had other places to be, other castles to break into.

Other gardeners to annoy.

The thought twisted a sour gait to her walk.

She shook her head ruefully. She didn't have the luxury of wasting time with a petty thief. She had too many things to do. Chores to complete, plants to care for. Soil to maintain and tools to repair.

Lost in her denial, she missed Octavia's figure crossing her sight on the darkened path, a bleak spot in Clarke's tossing mind.

There was no reason to feel worried when Lexa never appeared for the rest of the night.

+++++++

The following evening, her heart made a loud flip when she found the shadows welcoming once again.

"You weren't here, the other night," Clarke shared over a handful of hay she had stolen from the stable on her way to the plum trees.

The thief sat cross legged in soft pants that bagged at her waist, and small dimples peeked at the corners of her hinted smirk.

"There was no moon."

"No moon?" Clarke peered down at her, "Are you a werewolf or something?"

Lexa smirked, twisting to look at her, "Or something." she agreed, head snapping up, a flicker of an emotion Clarke didn't recognize passing in her eyes.

"That's not necessarily reassuring."

"I never declared my company to be safe," Lexa shrugged, an underlining of something darker in her tone.

Clarke blinked, hands tearing apart the last of the hay. She snorted. "You're not helping with your case of supposedly not being a dangerous criminal."

The other woman chuckled, in the same haughty tone from the first time they had met. Clarke was surprised when the familiar feeling of animosity didn't surface in her chest, leaving room for the marble sound of Lexa's chuckles. Brewing in her belly, there was a yearning to earn the view of Lexa's laughter lines as often as she could.

Clarke sighed without any real malice and wished she could go back to hating it.

Lexa adjusted the twisted hem of her tunic, crumbled from her running, and shuffled over to make space for the gardener to lean against the tree trunk.

Clarke felt the breeze play with her hair, feeling the tickle of the wind caress her skin. On the next strong gust, she let loose one hay stalk in the wind, watching as it traveled over the contours of darkness. Next to her, Lexa snapped a fallen branch in two, a scrawny small twig that crows and ravens used to build their nests.

Clarke reached to steal the twig from Lexa, but thought better of it. She had never noticed how pretty Lexa's hands looked in the low lights.

Before she could do something stupid like imagine how it would feel to hold them, Clarke cleared her throat.

"It's a nice evening today, right?” Clarke asked through a suppressed chortle.

Lexa looked at her, "Oh, so now it's small talk. What happened to threats and menaces?"

"If you prefer I can go fetch an halberd and ask you about the weather again."

"Well, maybe I don't mind this either."

A ruffle of feeling shook Clarke as she watched Lexa stretch, "Uh, the - the stars do look beautiful tonight."

A shiver of universe fractured over their heads.

"Makes me wish I could paint them."

"You paint?"

Clarke sighed and twirled her hand, fingers shaping as if she was holding a paintbrush, "I did. Before coming here. People, landscapes, animals... whatever caught my interest. But it's not something I can afford right now..." she trailed off and touched her own wrist with the other hand, "Don't get me wrong. We servants are lucky to have enough money for basic needs, like clothes. It's not like we're struggling. But colours and canvases are pretty expensive, now more than ever because of the war, and it's something I can go without."

Lexa's jaw clicked as she clenched it, eyes like steel.

Clarke gnawed on her bottom lip, alerted by Lexa's weird reaction, "But it's okay," she blurted, "I can live without. Without painting."

She waved a hand in the air, drawing a vague gesture between them, "Plus, who knows when I could find the time to paint again, with all I have to do and all... all of this."

Lexa swallowed on what looked like burnt fury, "I'm sure you're pretty talented."

Clarke waved away the compliment, but not the feeling fueling it.

"What was the last thing you painted?"

Leaning back on her hands, Clarke launched in an animated telling of the last sketch she had dabbled in the corner of one book. Then she told her about her favourite portrait, one she had seen from a foreign ambassador last month. And then about the dance of the light over landscapes and the dimples springing from people's smiles. The swirling of colours on a wooden palette or how shadows stretch over the flowers in the dimming sunlight. The lines of paint smeared in the crease of her fingers.

Every time her own voice itched or changed intonation, Clarke saw anger bleed out of Lexa's irises as the thief listened to her earnestly, until the green of clovers shed through again.

She didn't know if it Lexa realized she could see her anger.

Clarke talked until she felt the indentation of the pebbles under her palms, which started to tingle because of the continued pressure.

A cloud crossed the moon's path, cloaking the couple in darkness again. They both looked up towards the pale circle of the moon, as it dipped closer and closer to the horizon line. Lexa rose and stretched, arms locked in a wide angle over her head. After a couple of popping noises, she sighed in pleasure, indulging in a long stretch. The moan echoed inside Clarke, ricocheting down until her belly, where it burned.

Lexa turned to look at her her, arms folded and body tilted closer, observant and smiling.

"Well, I better be going," she said, swaying on the ball of her feet.

"Off to do more breaking in?"

Lexa shrugged and took one step towards the castle walls.

"Bye," Clarke called lamely, "I- I, I'll see you."

She uncrossed her arms and waved at her retreating back.

+++++

The paintbrush hit her on her left toe, falling vertically for a handful of inches.

"Wha-"

It didn't hurt.

Nor did the other paintbrushes the goose dropped at her feet, crushing the late parsley buds under their weight and scattering around the garlic sprouts she was collecting. But for once, Clarke didn't care about the ruined stems (all salvageable, of course) because she was busy observing the strange apparition.

The goose stared with large unblinking eyes and honked and nibbled at her gloved fingers with its beak. The gentlest pressure, not enough to break skin. As she didn't acknowledge it, the bite was followed by a sharper nip. Satisfied with the attention, the goose shook its wings and fluffed up in a cloud of white plumage. She observed keenly as the bird strolled for a couple of bumbling steps, then stopped to preen near the onion patch, reaching for the feathers under its left wing.

Still kneeling on the ground, Clarke reached for the closest paintbrush, tossing away her gardening gloves in a rush. She cradled the tool in the dip of her palm. The coarse bristles of the brush pushed at an old feeling in her chest until it resurfaced, humming right under the lid of her memories.

Fingers curling around the brush, Clarke watched the goose stroll away and turn a corner, disappearing in an alcove of the wall.

"Is this for me...?" she asked to the empty air, puzzlement dancing in her voice.

Left alone, Clarke rolled the paintbrush in her fingers, noticing a couple of letters carved into the broader side.

Uz.

Ambassador Uzac, from the Broadleaf Clan. An unremarkable man, proud and simplistic in his reactionary views. She recognized the symbol underneath the monogram, a sinewy leaf dripping what looked like either resin or blood.

"What the..."

The garden eased into a waiting stillness, one in which even insects sounded loud. The moment was shattered by a scruffy sound, a rippling disturbance similar to a dragging sound. The goose reappeared from the same corner, struggling to walk backwards. Its neck was bent forward, beak clasped around the handle of a box. The bird dragged it on the ground, letting it feel every bump of the irregular terrain.

When it reached the unstitched hem of her trousers, the goose stopped its awkward paddling and unceremoniously dropped the load at her feet. Clarke hesitated to reach for the box and the goose honked, as if to urge her to accept its gift.

The same 'Uz' letters, painted in small golden paint, glimmered next to the lock as she opened it with a flick of her wrist. Inside the box laid a wide array of dyeing ingredients, everything required to fabricate colours.

Dried beetroot skin for earthy pigments. Rose and hibiscus petals for red hues. Chalk for white. Onion skin for yellow, laid to dry next to a handful of blueberries.

"Oh," she breathed, marveling. The paprika powder left a smear of orange on her fingertips.

"I know you probably stole this, but honestly, Uzac is an ancient stuffy asshole and he deserves it," she chuckled, "So, uh, thank you," she stammered, feeling like a fool for thanking a bird. A bird who was busy scratching a spot between the top of its wings, neck arched backwards.

She hid the box under her hay hat when Uzan came marching in the garden, hissing furiously and spewing venom from his mouth. He had a long white feather stuck in the clasp of his cloak and another in the golden brooch shining under his lapels.

+++++

She didn't want to feel flattered. But the cracked nuts and the torn pages of poetry that Clarke found on the doorstep didn't stop.

And it was weird, especially for a goose. Even her last boyfriend, Finn, had brought her less gifts during their whole relationship.

Clarke borrowed from Aden his cherished book on birds and spent the whole night reading at candlelight, pouring questions into the ink stained corners. She discovered crows brought monikers and gifts. Not geese. And also cats - she remembered fondly her father accepting dead mice and broken twigs from their neighbour's cat, when she was only an adventurous child.

She shrugged and let the goose bring to her porch nice, colorful threads and useful little pebbles.

+++++

There was dirt caked under her nails.

It always seemed to stick there, despite her messy attempts at scrubbing her hands clean. Like moons of dirt spilling over her nails, small crescent shapes of brown. Like the half moon that bathed Lexa in vibrant light. The shy moon that peeked behind the swaying contour of trees.

One of her nails cracked at the next hit, her white knuckled grip bruising around the poll, her lone tether.

Lexa loved the moon. Clarke knew it because she had caught her looking up many times.

Bent and crumpled under her own weight, her knees felt weak. The cracking sound of the whip splintered her thoughts and swallowed the muffled hiccup of Octavia's shaking shoulders. Raven faltered at her side, eyes hooded as Clarke knelt in the middle of the yard, presenting her back to an Azgedan warrior, who had a glass eye and a puckered scar on his left cheek.

She felt warm rivers streak down her uncovered back and douse her sides with uncomfortable stickiness. Broken screams surfaced in her throat at each crack, stifled cries of pain that left bubbles in her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered in her vision, consciousness riddled by lingering flashes of white pain. A burning spread through her lungs until it settled deep in her chest.

Every time she closed her eyes to abate the vertigo, she saw the delicious profile of Lexa's warpaint bathed in the moonlight.

There was dirt caked under her nails.

If she had the strength to raise her head from the hunched position over the poll, she would have seen the ruined buds of glowing flowers, petals billowing in the wind, a wave of fluttering softness lost in the destroyed field. The plants were bent and ruined, broken in the middle and drooping.

Queen Nia had personally requested them for the floral arrangements of the impending party.

They were beautiful, a wonderful speckle of life Clarke had never seen before. But after she had learned about the new species, Clarke had unraveled a nasty sentiment of malignity trapped between the glowing petals. Rows and rows of spiteful flowers, a refined and polished insult Nia had reserved for her guests.

Clarke had painstakingly hunted for each bulb, scouting markets and straggling with merchants coming from far away lands, outside the Trikru territory. In her troubled research, she had discovered that the glowing flowers were sacred to the Tree Clan. Thus it was forbidden to sell and grow them for personal exploit. Luna had told her how flowers were involved in the Conclave, the ceremony where a new Heda was crowned to lead the kingdom. Due to their particular structure, the glowing flowers thrived exclusively in specific climatic conditions. After years of evolving and changing, the flowers had settled permanently in a secluded forest deep within Trikru territory, a sacred ground that was believed to be a bridge toward the ghosts of past life. As part of the Conclave, Hedas sought knowledge and guidance from their predecessors, as well as blessing and good fortune for their reign.

Therefore, by presenting bouquets of sacred flowers to her guests she would have forced them to tighten their smiles, utterly powerless to defy the queen's disregard for their traditions. Or they would have, if only the flowers destined to compose the endless bouquets for the dance hall hadn't been ruined by a wild animal.

Titus, the Fleimkepa, had forbidden Nia to trample the forest for floral arrangements, gripping to traditions and loyalties only when it suited him. Since the refusal, Clarke had been tasked to grow them anew.

She had planted each bulb carefully, measuring the distance between each one and the depth of the holes in the ground. Months of research only topped by months of patient waiting and religiously maintaining. She had even built a net over them, fearing the force of sudden storms, after seeing her fair share of crops ruined by pelting hail.

"It looks weird," Lexa had laughed, as Clarke showed her the idea for the protection. She had bumped their shoulders together to shut her up.

She was not wrong, Clarke supposed. From the low angle on the ground it did look kinda funny.

Her eyes dropped down to the shadows on the ground, bleached in the pale morning light. She could see the marks left by her knees, small indents running parallel in the dirt. A new streak of boiling wetness trickled down the side of her thigh.

The guards - rough imprints on the underside of Clarke's arms, had dragged her in Nia's presence, as the regent leaned against the backrest of her throne. A narrow of her eyes, and Clarke had felt a booted heel pressing down between her shoulder blades.

"Do you know why I made them bring you here, Skaikru goufa?"

Clarke pressed low on the pavement.

"Usually I let others deal with petty incidents like this."

An ache was starting to tingle in her thighs, the pressure crushing them under her bent body.

"Answer me."

"No, your Majesty," her lips thinned, fearing the anger she could feel boiling in her chest.

"No," Nia sneered, "I believe you do, Skaikru," her words cut, clean and precise. The queen's tone was measured, not one drop of strength more, not one less icing her tone. A steely meticulous vibrated from the queen, "Do not dare to belittle my intelligence."

Clarke knew. She had known from the moment she had found the garden in ruins, irreparably damaged by a hurricane of white feathers.

"That problem should have been dealt with months ago."

Clarke twisted her head, struggling to get a clear view of the monarch, "I'm a gardener, not an animal catcher."

"And so?"

Nia lifted her chin. The clear contempt distorting her features made Clarke's blood boil in her veins and the heat brought a burst of recklessness to her lips.

"Plus, how was I supposed to catch the one animal who was able to best your general?" she choked out, air stolen from her lungs as the boot on her back slammed her forward. Her chin bounced with a painful crack.

" _Klark kom Skaikru_. I gave you a task, one you failed to fulfill," the queen's voice pierced the ringing of her ears, "And I think that perhaps your failure wasn't dictated by negligence. No. I do believe it was rather a sentiment of malice, one that has deep roots entwined in your intentions."

A clicking noise added to Clarke's huffed breath.

"I am certain you are aware of the meaning of these flowers. Or at least you were bound to discover it in your research, be it sooner or later. Is that correct?"

"I-I, I don't-" someone kicked her in the side, making her groan.

"Do not insult me, Skaikru. I will not repeat myself."

Clarke wheezed, "Yes, your Majesty."

The frown crossing Nia's feature morphed into something dangerous as the clicking resumed, "The difference between an accident and a crime is the intention hidden behind the action. An ill will may alter the tip of the scale in judgment. The lone possible benefactor of this offense could only belong to the Tree Clan," Nia paused for a moment, "Thus, it would be reasonable to assume the perpetrator could have acted in allegiance with them."

The flash of understanding numbed the ache in Clarke's body.

"As sovereign, I must be constantly aware of my citizens. There is no reign without subjects, after all," she chuckled, a cold laugh, and her voice rose in command, "And while I dictate the law, I can't interfere with their inner believes."

The clacking came closer.

"Skaikru swore fealty to me, not to the Trikru."

A guard kicked Clarke again. His shoe caught her jaw and she felt the unsettling metallic taste of blood in her mouth. She forced herself not to spit.

"Someone must be punished for this offense. I don't care who it is, animal or human."

The sound of Nia's strolling reached an end right in front of Clarke. From her low position, the gardener could see a pair of artisan shoes entering her field of vision. She had never seen the queen rise from her throne in anger, "And since your bird isn't here, I guess we'll have to punish you in its stead, Skaikru."

She totally understood why loaded the word with such scorn.

Her knuckles whitened as her hands tightened around the poll, and she righted herself, grimacing at the next lashing. The tangy taste of blood pooled in her mouth.

She hoped Lexa would wait a little bit longer.

++++++

If not for the leather belt clenched between her teeth, Clarke's screams would have shaken the room. In the cramped space of the infirmary, Clarke let the tears come, focusing on the burning tracks left on her cheekbones, vision blurred from the tears. She tried to curl into a ball, but discovered she couldn’t roll because of the bonds anchoring her to the table. Another muffled scream tore from her throat at the wave of stabbing pain radiating from her back. She tried bucking Nyko's touch off, but she was too weak to throw him off.

"Clarke." Abby spoke, voice hoarse, cleaning a streak of blood from the corner of her mouth.

Her mother hovered over her, whispering sweet reassurances in her ears, but the words filtered brokenly through Clarke's mind, caught in the throes of pain. She chased after the cooling sensation brought by a wet cloth to her sweaty forehead, but the feeling didn't last. She arched her back against another round of pain as Nyko washed and treated the open welts on her back.

Ignoring the ringing in her ears, Clarke tried to focus on the rolls of bandages piled in front of her.

"Last one, Clarke," Nyko warned and she forced herself to believe him, "This is going to hurt."

Clarke braced herself, biting back a curse as Nyko doused another wave of burning coldness over her back. She felt her bare toes curl in the air, unrestrained legs kicking in the air.

"That's it, Clarke. That was the last of it," Nyko huffed, rough voice bending around her in comforting waves, Trigedasleng accent vibrating in his timbre. Thoughts warped by pain, his gentleness was a blanket of calm and Clarke understood why Abby had chosen him as her assistance despite his bulky presence.

Slowly, the pain washed over her, lessening its hold on her stiffened limbs. The world around her became fuzzy, tilting to the side.

The last thing she felt before succumbing to sleep was her mother's kiss on her brow and a whispered, "Rest now, _Klark,_ " from Nyko, who lightly squeezed her ankle.

His breathing slowed to a click, the same rolling her name held when Lexa pronounced it.

++++++

When she woke up the next time, all she could feel was soreness. Beneath her skin and between her bones. In the tingling of her lips. In the itch of the threadbare pillow under her head. Trying to roll her shoulders turned out to be a terrible idea.

"Clarke."

She was laying face down on the cot, back held horizontal by a series of pillows tucked under her belly.

"Mom?" she heard herself question, but her mouth felt heavy and clumsy so it came out more like "Mm?"

"I'm here," her mother replied, dabbing at her forehead.

“Wha…” Clarke barely got a syllable out before something itchy was shoved in her face. She felt the rough texture of a water skin, before her body clicked unconsciously into gear to accept the offered water.

"Drink, it'll make you feel better."

The desert in her throat wasn't quenched after the measly sip. Nonetheless Clarke swallowed and managed a somewhat thankful curl of her lips.

Abby hummed something under her breath, "Do you remember what happened?"

Clarke shifted through her memories to locate the cracking of the whip and the scar on the warrior. She shivered at the thought.

Her trembling didn't go unnoticed to her mother, who pulled a blanket higher over her bare shoulders, "Are you cold? I'm keeping you here under observation for a couple of days, but I don't think you'll get a fever."

"I'm okay," her voice sounded rough to her ears, hoarse from disuse and screaming.

She twisted her head to peek at her mother and saw that her eyes were misted with a thin veil of wetness. Hair pushed back haphazardly, she still wore her doctor's overall over the tunic, but the cloth appeared clean. She must have changed out of the bloodied one as she slept.

When she raised one hand to the side of Clarke's hair, the gardener diverted her eyes.

They fell over a small pile of objects instead, a mismatch of things that clearly didn't belong in an infirmary. Abby followed her gaze after a moment.

"Your friends dropped by," she said, stretching the lines that circled her eyes, "They left all sorts of gifts for you."

She recognized a bronze pot from Octavia's kitchen, certainly filled with steaming soup. A shiny brooch from Raven next to a patterned handkerchief, probably courtesy of Harper. Bottles of golden liquid cluttered in a picnic basket, a gift from Bellamy as the scrawled note proclaimed.

"Though I suggest you refrain from consuming Monty and Jasper's gifts. Those boys should know better. You know alcohol doesn't mix well with medicine." Her tilted smile mirrored on Clarke's face.

"How-" Clarke cleared her throat, "How long?"

"You've been out just a little over than a day," Abby replied, parting the strands of hair over the shell of Clarke's ear, "We woke you up to let you drink something, but you passed out immediately after. I thought you would have done the same this time."

Clarke hummed her reply, letting silence envelop them again.

The warmth of the room and the repetitive motion of her mother's fingers brought her to the brink of sleep. Her limbs were mellow and pliant, heavy under the covers. She let herself accept the caress for a moment more, feeling an ache in her chest not related to the beating she had received. Aching and tired, Clarke had the sudden wish to become a child again, so she could hide in the crook of her mother's neck and believe everything would be alright in the end.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

But she was not a child, no matter how strongly she desired it.

"I want to be alone, mom."

She felt her mother's touch still in her hair, fingers pressing in her scalp. And when she withdrew her hand, Clarke had to suppress the urge to whine.

"Do you want me to call someone else? Octavia? Raven?" Abby asked and Clarke hated the shaking in her voice.

"No."

As Abby rose from her seat, Clarke turned towards the wall to hide her tears in the scratchy pillow.

++++++

When the pain lessened to a dull throb after a few days, Clarke dared to venture outside again.

She dodged her mother's judging stare as she questioned her decision to move out of the infirmary to retreat to her own quarters. Instead of slithering through her cluttered room, she ventured outside, down the path that lead to the plum tree. As she spotted Lexa's figure she released a shuddering sigh of relief.

She took the feeling of missing her and slotted it in her heart, too tired to fight it.

"I thought I had scared you away for good this time," came Lexa's joke. The hesitancy in her tone made Clarke's heart flip in her chest.

The gardener scoffed as she lowered herself on the ground without leaning against the rough bark, careful of her still tender back, "Pf, as if a thief like you could-"

She cut herself off with a sharp intake of breath, as a brief pang of pain traveled up her spine.

"Clarke?"

"I'm okay," she gasped out, waiting for the agonizing curl of her limbs to unclench, "I'm okay."

Lexa's expression flickered, the crease in her forehead wrinkling to an emotion too fleeting for Clarke to grasp.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," Clarke choked, wishing her pain to be swallowed and hidden away from Lexa's keen eyes, "It's nothing, don't worry."

The frown marring Lexa's features darkened, even though the girl made no move to reach for Clarke. A thick silence rushed to fill the space between them, Clarke's eyes lowered on the ground under Lexa's keen scrutiny.

When she finally felt brave enough to meet Lexa's gaze, Clarke spoke again.

"It's my back," she offered, shoulders hunched in a vain effort to banish the ripples of pain that traveled down her spine.

"What happened?" Lexa asked and Clarke didn't miss the tightness in her voice.

"Nia had me punished," she swallowed, "Thirty lashes."

Something shifted in Lexa's green eyes.

"That's why I wasn't here, these past few nights," Clarke added unhelpfully, hating the silence that stuck to them.

"Why?"

"Because, well- Maybe it's easier if I just show you."

She offered her hand to Lexa, and the girl stretched her long legs, an uncurling of lean strong limbs.

"Are you okay with walking?" Lexa pointed out, making Clarke's chest feel fuzzy all over. They settled for a slow pace, as not to jar Clarke's injures.

They held hands all the way to the field of glowing flowers, where Clarke dared a light squeeze. Lexa didn't squeeze back, but didn't let go either.

When they reached the edge of the garden, Clarke pulled Lexa to a stop, shuffling on her feet. The lanterns behind them cast a circle of light that banished the shadows on their faces.

A warm breeze tickled her bare neck and the ground was soft beneath her feet because of the rain. A few periwinkle gleams shone in the field, lonely bulbs that were barely surviving. Through the cracks of the ground left by the rain, weeds had grown, circling the unattended plants.

She focused on the warmth of Lexa's hand and ignored the churning of her stomach.

"There's a wild goose," she began, pushing back a loose curl of her hair, "This goose has trampled for months the castle grounds. Stealing things, ruining plants... it's been a thorn in my side for ages, uh, no pun intended."

She hoped Lexa didn't find the situation as ridiculous as it sounded to her own ears.

"No matter what, I had never been able to capture it or shoo it away. It kept coming back, messing with me and my garden," she chuckled. "And the weird thing was that lately it had mostly been... tolerable. I think. It was being nice, for a change? I even think it stole art supplies for me."

Her chuckle drained quickly when Lexa didn't join in her chuckle, face still hidden in darkness.

"Then the other day, I came out to this," Clarke waved her hand in front of her.

Even in the night, the clear silhouettes of the ruined plants shone under the moonlight, their petals swaying to the breeze. Few damaged flowers had started to wilt, leaving brown dried patches around the field. There were long hours of collecting petals in her future.

"Since the goose wasn't anywhere to be found, Nia decided to... well, she decided to punish me in its stead."

"I'm sorry."

The words tumbled down from the darkness, and in the quiet the words sounded genuine, sadness entwined in each dip of Lexa's timbre. Her mother's oppressive grief had irked her, in the same way Octavia's pitiful stare had lingered on the canvas of red on her back. Lexa's words were wrapped instead in a subtle and wild grief that ricocheted deeply within Clarke.

Clarke squeezed again Lexa's hand, "Don't be. It's not your fault."

Lexa looked startled, as if she hadn't expected for her to pick up on her feeling.

"But it's not fair, the goose-"

"Few things are fair under Nia's reign."

But instead of being comforted, Lexa seemed to grow more agitated and anxious. Gone was the collected and smooth thief, replaced by an anxious layer. With a tug, Lexa freed her hand from Clarke's grip and took a step back, leaving her hand to curl around empty air.

"I'm sorry," she croaked again, arms wrapped around her middle.

As Clarke stepped closer, Lexa stepped away, stumbling. It was the first time Clarke had seen her without an ounce of grace and levity to her movements. The idea stunned her enough to make her freeze on the spot, even more than the fear of spooking Lexa away.

Shaking the feelings from her limbs, Clarke took another step. She didn't like the the thin line of Lexa's lips, "Are you okay?"

At the touch of Clarke's hand on her forearm, Lexa jerked away, a wild look in her eyes as she skittered away, "I'm sorry."

"Lexa?"

That didn't stop her and the thief disappeared in the darkness of the garden, the stomping of her footsteps swallowed by the chirping of the crickets.

Clarke fumbled as she tried to follow, but the tear of her tender skin halted her movements with a sudden spike of discomfort. Wincing, she rolled her shoulders slowly, one at time, to chase away the soreness of her back.

"Lexa?"

The reply came in form of a single white feather falling from one plant. The feather landed at her feet, stuck in the blades of grass. Before she could pick it up, a stronger gust of air twirled her golden hair, the curls invading her vision. Spluttering the lock of hair away from her mouth, Clarke frowned when she noticed the feather had disappeared, carried away.

Her heart beat half time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, see you soon! :)  
> Oh, all translations come from this handy [site](https://trigedasleng.net/)  
> If anyone wants to say hi, this is my tumblr. Not much action, but I'm there.
> 
> [arckee-dreams](https://arckee-dreams.tumblr.com/)


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